aris  a  la  Carte 


Llifornia 

ional 

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J  ULIAN  STREET 


PARIS   A  LA  CARTE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

"  THE  NEED  OF  CHANGE." 

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"  SHIP-BORED." 

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"  MY  ENEMY  —  THE  MOTOR." 

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PARIS 
A  LA  CARTE 

By 

JULIAN   STREET 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  NEED  OF  CHANGE,"  "MY  ENEMY- 
THE  MOTOR,"  "SHIP-BORED,"  ETC. 

With  Illustrations  by 
MAY  WILSON  PRESTON 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXII 


Copyright,  1911 
By  The  Ridgway  Company 


Copyright,  1912 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Stack  Annex 


To 
WILLIAM  RICHARD  HEREFORD 

in  Memory  of 
Menus  Met  and  Conquered 


List  of  Illustrations 

If  you  have  not  the  energy  to  find  it,  you 
don't  deserve  to  know  the  Restaurant 
du  Coucou  ....  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Beside  the  luminous  doorway  huddled  a 
little  group  of  onlookers  .  .  .18 

Aside  from  the  fact  that  a  pair  of  profes- 
sionals give  the  "Apache"  dance  among 
the  tables,  there  is  no  reason  for  sitting 
there  .  .  .  .  .  .24 

Long  (and  high)  live  the  army!  .         .     32 

When  Frederic  carves  a  Rouen  duck  people 
lay  down  their  knives  and  forks  to 
watch,  and  waiters  stand  about  in 
prayerful  attitudes  .  .  .  .40 

Shedding  a  glamour  on  the  quartier  and  soup 
on  their  Windsor  ties  .  .  .  .48 

The  spirit  of  Parisian  restaurants        .         .     58 
She  is  starring  in  opera  in  America  this  year     66 


Paris  a  la  Carte"  originally  appeared  in 
Everybody's  Magazine. 


Preface 


IN  the  foreword  to  his  "Gastronomic 
Promenade  in  Paris,"  published  1804,  the 
eminent  and  capacious  Grimod  de  la  Rey- 
niere  expressed  himself  as  follows: 

"The  author  will  regret  neither  the  cares 
nor  the  indigestions  his  researches  have  caused 
him,  if  the  alimentary  art  owes  new  progress 
to  this  effort.11 

In  the  account,  which  follows,  of  certain 
of  my  own  "gastronomic  promenades  in 
Paris,"  conducted  (principally  in  taxis) 
more  than  one  hundred  years  after  Grimod, 
the  reader  may  miss  the  sweetly  melancholy 
note  of  the  old  gourmand.  I  have  no  cares 
and  but  few  indigestions  to  look  back  upon. 
Nor  am  I  in  the  least  concerned  as  to  new 
progress  of  the  alimentary  art,  which — as 

9 


io  Preface 

at  present  practiced  in  the  agreeable  city  of 
Paris — meets  with  my  more  than  cordial 
approbation. 

In  making  my  researches  I  carried  with 
me  no  sense  of  deep  responsibility,  no 
gloomy  thoughts  on  the  "decadence  of  the 
French  cuisine,"  of  which  one  hears  in 
Paris.  My  principal  accoutrements  were, 
upon  the  contrary,  an  almost  frivolous  op- 
timism, an  appreciative  palate,  a  roving 
eye,  and  a  substantial  set  of  banknotes.  I 
may  have  also  carried,  upon  some  of  my 
excursions,  a  pencil  and  a  memorandum 
book,  but  the  notes  I  made  were  not  so  in- 
teresting as  those  I  spent.  I  did  not  make 
the  notes  I  spent.  They  were  supplied  to 
me  by  the  very  kindly  Editors  of  Every- 
body's Magazine,  who,  in  the  interests  of 
science,  financed  my  expedition. 

It  is  true  that  the  Editors  of  Everybody's 
Magazine  stayed  at  home,  while  the  writer 
crossed  the  seas  and  risked  digestion,  even 


Preface  " 

life  itself,  in  the  course  of  his  explorations. 
But  this  fact  does  not  justify  a  charge  of 
cowardice  against  them.  It  is  not  given  to 
all  of  us  to  take  the  field.  Not  all  of  us  may 
go  into  action  to  the  martial  music  of  the 
Hungarian  orchestra,  may  hear  the  hoarse 
orders  of  head  waiters,  the  clatter  of  wine 
coolers  being  rushed  forward  into  action, 
the  heavy  detonation  of  the  magnums,  and 
the  incessant  popping  of  the  pints  and 
splits.  Not  all  of  us  may  witness  the  swift, 
silent  rushes  and  retreats  of  the  light  infan- 
try of  omnibus  boys,  and  the  flashing  of 
steel  blades  as  brave  hearts  and  gouty 
hands  surround  the  floral  centrepiece  and 
try  conclusions  with  Sole  a  la  Margutry  or 
Canard  presse.  No,  there  must  be  unsung 
heroes,  who,  staying  ingloriously  at  home, 
yet  furnish  the  sinews  of  war.  The  writer 
therefore  gives  his  thanks  to  the  Editors  of 
Everbody's. 

The  present  volume  contains  much  ma- 


12  Preface 

terial  which,  owing  to  the  limitations  of 
magazine  space,  to  recent  restaurant  his- 
tory in  Paris,  and  to  further  information 
which  has  come  to  the  hands  of  the  author 
from  various  sources,  did  not  appear  in  the 
original  publication.  One  correspondent, 
after  flattering  me  upon  the  thoroughness 
with  which  he  is  kind  enough  to  say  my 
original  work  was  done,  utters  a  mild  re- 
proach upon  my  negligence  in  leaving  out 
his  pet  among  the  smaller  Paris  restaurants: 
Au  petit  Riche,  in  the  rue  Lepelletier,  which 
he  says  is  more  than  very  good  and  less  than 
very  moderate.  Another  mentions  Lucas'. 
I  shall  look  forward  to  the  Petit  Riche  and 
Lucas*. 

Another  friend — no  less  a  person  than 
the  Reformed  Diplomat,  himself — wrote  to 
me  from  Paris,  on  hearing  that  this  publica- 
tion was  impending.  "Don't  make  it  guide 
booky,"  he  urged.  "Make  it  entertaining 
and  amusing."  His  order  is  a  difficult  one 


Preface  13 

to  fill.  Much  as  I  dislike  to  do  so,  I  must 
admit  that  I  have  written  with  the  purpose 
to  be  "helpful." 

The  letter  which  I  have  found  most  dif- 
ficult to  answer  came  from  a  gentleman 
whose  daughter  was  in  Paris  with  another 
lady.  "I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  he 
wrote,  "to  just  which  places  they  may  go, 
without  transgressing  the  conventions." 

I  wish  I  knew.  I  would  tell  him,  if  I 
did.  American  women  abroad  are  con- 
stantly transgressing  the  conventions  in 
such  matters — transgressing  them  in  a  man- 
ner altogether  breezy  and  delightful.  Am- 
ericans rush  in  where  Frenchwomen  fear 
to  tread,  and,  to  drop  into  the  argot,  "get 
away  with  it."  Yet  I  cannot  take  the 
responsibility  of  advising  them  to  do  so. 
I  advise  them  not  to.  I  strongly  recom- 
mend them  to  refrain  from  going  out  to 
dinner  unescorted  (mothers,  aunts,  and 
duennas  do  not  come  within  my  definition 


14  Preface 

of  the  word  "escort"),  and  to  patronise 
only  the  more  conventional  establishments 
for  luncheon. 

But  all  these  things  depend  upon  how 
much  you  think  that  women — married  or 
unmarried — ought  to  know  and  see  and 
do.  I  have  taken  married  ladies  into 
Maxim's,  to  Montmartre,  and  to  the  places 
on  the  "Boul'  Mich'"  (because  they  in- 
sisted I  should  do  so).  Such  places  de- 
press some  women,  amuse  others.  But  I 
have  never  noticed  any  deleterious  effects, 
except  those  manifested  by  the  husband  of 
one  lady.  He  came  along  and  violently 
disapproved.  But  that  I  did  not  mind  at 
all;  the  lady  made  herself  proportionately 
more  agreeable. 

So  there  you  are!  And  may  your  viands 
taste  like  magic  dishes  from  some  fire  fairy's 
golden  casserolle.  J.  S. 

NEW  YORK,  January,  1912. 


PARIS  A  LA  CARTE 


Paris  a  la  Carte 

THEATRES  and  music-halls  were 
emptying;  cafes  filling  up.  Under 
the  blue  glare  of  arc-lights,  the  Paris 
boulevards  had  lost  their  last  vestige  of 
reality  and  attained  their  ultimate  theatric 
touch;  the  rows  of  horse-chestnuts  had  be- 
come stage  trees,  with  papier-mache  trunks 
and  preposterous  green  paper  leaves;  the 
women,  walking  in  the  patched  lights  be- 
neath, unearthly  beings,  with  reptilian  eyes 
and  poisonous  cheeks.  Cabmen,  soldiers, 
chauffeurs,  policemen,  boulevardiers,  were 
playing  their  parts  like  trained  comedians; 
the  rest  of  us  were  "supers,"  marching  and 
countermarching  to  the  music  of  the  mid- 
night streets.  It  was  the  most  unreal  hour 
in  the  most  unreal  city  in  the  world.  And 

we  were  at  the  very  heart  (or,  if  you  think 
a  17 


i8  Paris  a  la  Carte 

it  has  no  heart,  the  stomach)  of  the  gay 
night  life  of  Paris. 

Turning  into  the  avenue  de  l'Op6ra,  my 
friend,  the  Reformed  Diplomat,  and  I  be- 
held a  line  of  variegated  vehicles,  drawing 
up  successively  before  the  entrance  of  the 
Caf6  de  Paris.  On  the  walk,  beside  the  lu- 
minous doorway,  huddled  a  little  group 
of  onlookers — several  grimy,  tousle-headed 
children;  a  pair  of  sad-eyed  midinettes, 
doubly  pale  in  their  black  dresses;  an  old 
crone  bending  over  her  cane ;  a  burly,  beery 
truck-driver  pausing  on  his  way  from  a 
cruel  day's  work;  a  haggard  girl  of  the 
streets  pausing  on  her  way  to  a  cruel  night's 
work — objects  to  inspire  repulsion,  pity,  or 
perhaps  artistic  approbation  as  the  back- 
ground for  a  series  of  startling,  vari-coloured 
visions  which  burst  from  the  equipages, 
scudded  across  the  sidewalk  on  twinkling 
satin  slippers,  and  entered  the  door  of  the 
cafe.  Accompanying  each  of  these  effulgent 


Paris  a  la  Carte  19 

beings  was  a  hovering  black  figure,  shod  in 
glistening  patent  leather,  topped  with  a 
sleek  silk  hat,  and  garnished  with  the  essen- 
tial pocketbook. 

We  followed  and  were  met,  within,  by  the 
scream  of  violins,  the  scrutiny  of  head 
waiters,  and  the  scent  of  viands.  Before  us 
was  a  buffet,  dressed  with  a  profusion  of 
rare  edibles:  capon  from  Le  Mans,  black 
truffles  from  Perigord,  ripe  red  tomatoes 
from  Provence,  great  fish  from  icy  rivers, 
pates  de  foies  gras  from  Strassburg,  tender 
asparagus  from  Rheims,  succulent  string- 
beans  from  Nice,  red-lacquered  cherries, 
bits  of  grape-vine  bearing  fruit  like  clusters 
of  old  green  and  purple  jewels,  almonds  in 
jackets  of  verdigris;  big,  bizarre  strawber- 
ries; peaches  with  firm,  tender  flesh  and 
velvet  skin ;  an  avalanche  of  golden  bananas, 
and,  enthroned  above  all,  Her  Majesty  the 
pineapple,  in  the  green  crown  she  wears  as 
queen  of  tropic  fruits. 


20  Paris  a  la  Carte 

Beyond  the  buffet  lay  the  Caf£  de  Paris, 
divided,  like  all  Gaul,  into  three  parts. 
Some  people  were  going  up 
a  stairway  (two  by  two  like 
the  animals  into  the  Ark) 
to  the  cabinets  particuliers, 
those  secluded  and  insinuating  private  di- 
ning-rooms which  are  not  the  least  Parisian 
things  about  the  leading  Paris  restaurants. 
Other  people  were  going  sadly  to  the  left  side 
of  the  ground-floor  room,  which  is  the  "dis- 
card"; still  others  were  being  shown  to  the 
opposite  side,  which  is,  in  both  senses  of  the 
word,  the  right. 

To  sit  upon  the  right  side  of  the  Cafe  de 
Paris  it  is  necessary  to  be  upon  the  right 
side  of  Louis  Barrya,  the  maitre  d' hotel— 
which  costs,  I  am  informed,  one  hundred 
francs,  payable  in  almost  any  sort  of  money, 
in  advance.  Aside  from  the  fact  that  a 
pair  of  professionals  give  the  "Apache" 
dance  among  the  tables,  there  is  no  reason 


Paris  a  la  Carte  21 

for  sitting  there,  excepting  that  it  is  "the 
thing"  to  do  so.  My  friend,  the  Reformed 
Diplomat,  declares  that  it  is  a  sort  of  un- 
chartered  American  club,  of  which  Louis  is 
the  house  committee,  the  membership  com- 
mittee, and,  above  all,  the  treasurer.  The 
qualification  for  membership  is  the  posses- 
sion and  free  use  of  money.  Payment  of 
the  initiation  fee  creates  instant  member- 
ship, giving  you  the  right  to  sit  on  a  yellow 
divan,  order  a  la  carte  from  a  menu  which 
scorns  to  mention  sordid  things  like  prices, 
and,  having  ordered,  eat  and  drink  and 
look  about  at  the  marble  columns,  gold 
ceilings,  mirrors,  luxuriant  plants,  and 
gaudy  Americans. 

If  you  see  an  occasional  "foreigner,"  it  is 
probably  James  Hazen  Hyde,  Valeska  Sur- 
ratt,  or  a  waiter — although  I  have  heard 
that  a  Russian  or  an  Anglomaniac  French- 
man drifts  in,  now  and  then,  during  the 
winter,  when  there  are  no  Americans  in 


22  Paris  a  la  Carte 

Paris.  (No  wonder  French  waiters  think 
that  Americans  hibernate  through  the  cold 
season,  only  to  reappear  in  the  spring,  the 
females  with  new  plumage,  the  males  with 
new  letters  of  credit.) 

One  is  inclined  to  puzzle,  at  first,  as  to 
how  the  Caf6  de  Paris  exists  while  the  Amer- 
icans are  absent,  but  presently  one  gets  one's 
bill  and  understands.  I  ceased  to  wonder 
even  before  the  bill  was  brought,  for  I  saw 
a  gentleman  from  Indiana  drop  a  golden 
louis  on  the  floor  and  give  it  to  the  waiter 
as  a  tip  for  his  pains  in  having  picked  it  up. 

Witnessing  this  exhibition  of  financial  in- 
souciance, I  suddenly  became  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  the  Cafe  de  Paris  is  no  place 
for  a  person  who  endeavors  to  extract  a  liv- 
ing from  that  typewriter  we  still  refer  to, 
picturesquely,  as  "the  pen."  The  food  and 
drink  are  not  homelike  from  a  literary  point 
of  view — they  are  too  good;  and  although 
authors,  in  their  lairs,  have  no  prices  marked 


Paris  a  la  Carte  23 

upon  their  menus,  the  absence  of  prices 
from  the  menus  of  this  cafe  does  not  give 
that  cosey  and  domestic  touch  one  might 
expect. 

To  feel  entirely  at  home  in  the  Caf£  de 
Paris  one  should  have  been  especially  born 
for  the  purpose.  The  seventh  son  of  the 
seventh  wife  of  a  man  with  seven  millions 
might  grow  up  to  it,  especially  if  born  with 
a  golden  spoon  (full  of  caviar)  in  his  mouth, 
or  if  he  came  into  being  in  a  proscenium 
box  on  the  first  night  of  a  Broadway  musi- 
cal show.  Subsequent  training  as  a  stock- 
broker, a  wine-agent,  a  man-milliner,  or  the 
editor  of  a  Chicago  society  paper  might  also 
help.  An  infant  born  under  such  favorable 
conditions,  and  carefully  nurtured  with  bot- 
tled cocktails  and  absinthe,  would  be  ready 
for  the  Cafe  de  Paris  on  attaining  his  major- 
ity, or  be  a  disappointment  to  his  parents 
and  the  show-girl  with  whom  he  elopes.  It 
would  be  a  good  place  for  his  honeymoon 


24  Paris  a  la  Carte 

with  his  unblushing  bride,  except  for  the 
fact  that  the  Cafe  de  Paris  closes  at  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  which  might 
spoil  their  evenings. 

Apropos  of  this,  it  may  be  mentioned 
that,  though  the  matter  of  time  is,  from  one 
point  of  view,  unimportant  to  your  Parisian 
restaurant-goer,  it  is  peculiarly  important 
from  another.  Unlike  the  American,  the 
Frenchman  is  not  irritated  by  slow  service, 
providing  each  dish  is  palatable  when  it 
finally  arrives.  He  prefers  things  cooked  to 
order,  regardless  of  time,  and,  to  this  end, 
ceases  entirely  to  transact  business  between 
the  hours  of  noon  and  two  o'clock.  In  the 
largest  cities  outside  Paris,  even  the  banks 
are  closed  through  this  part  of  the  day. 

"All  of  which,"  Flammang  will  tell  you, 
"shows  why  the  French  have  better  things 
to  eat  than  the  Americans,  no  matter  how 
many  celebrated  Parisian  chefs  are  taken 
to  New  York." 


O  O 
«   2 


•<  SB 
eu  H 

•<   en 


AN  OLD 
CHEF 


Paris  a  la  Carte  25 

Flammang  has  been  chef  for  the  Duke  of 
York,  also  in  many  clubs  and  fashionable 

restaurants  in  New  York,  but    

has  retired,  now,  to  pass  a  phi- 
losophic old  age  as  proprietor 
of  a  tea-room  and  pastry-shop 
on  a  corner  of   the   rue  Valois,  near  the 
Palais  Royal. 

"In  America,"  says  he,  "people  eat  too 
fast.  They  sit  down  to  table,  regard  their 
watches,  and  say  to  the  waiter:  'Quick! 
I  have  but  an  half-hour!'  He  brings  them 
food,  running.  They  throw  it  into  their 
mouths  as  one  throws  clothing  into  a  laun- 
dry bag.  When  one  course  isjfinished,  the 
next  must  be  upon  the  table.  If  it  is  not, 
they  call  for  the  head  waiter  and  cry  with 
fury:  'What  is  the  matter!  What  is  the 
matter!  I  arrived  at  three  minutes  past 
twelve;  it  was  twenty-one  minutes  past 
when  I  called  you,  and  here  a  whole  half- 
minute  has  passed  while  I  have  spoken! 


26  Paris  a  la  Carte 

Eighteen  and  one-half  minutes  gone,  yet 
where  are  those  chop  with  petits  pois?  This 
is  terrible!  It  is  one  veritable  scandalef 

"And  for  that,"  Flammang  continues, 
"what  must  these  good  chefs  do?  They 
must  begin  to  cook  two  or  three  hours  in 
advance.  Then  the  food  must  stand  in 
large  quantities,  to  become  dry  and  with- 
out flavour.  Ah,  but  it  is  ready!  That 
is  the  thing.  Quick!  Quick!" 

If  the  time  spent  at  table  is  not  impor- 
tant to  the  Frenchman,  the  time  for  sitting 
down  to  meals  is  highly  so.  Certain  res- 
taurants are  popular  at  certain  hours :  some 
for  breakfast,  others  for  luncheon,  tea,  din- 
ner, or  supper.  Comparatively  few  people, 
for  example,  lunch  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
more  dine  there,  but  it  is  not  until  about 
midnight  that  the  great  crowd  arrives. 

When,  two  or  three  hours  later,  the  people 
are  leaving  this  cafe,  and  the  violinists  are 
putting  their  instruments  in  cases,  such  re- 


Paris  a  la  Carte  27 

sorts  as  Maxim's  and  the  wild  establish- 
ments of  Montmartre  are  only  tuning  to 
their  shrillest,  dizziest  pitch.  Maxim's, 
though  technically  open  through  the  day, 
is  practically  deserted  before  midnight,  and 
does  not  reach  its  ultimate  until  half-past 
two  or  three  o'clock,  A.M.,  while  the  several 
giddy  Montmartre  cafes,  of  which  I  shall 
speak  later,  do  not  even  make  a  pretence 
of  opening  their  doors  before  eleven  or 
twelve  at  night. 

Last  year  I  met,  in  Paris,  an  American 
youth  who,  having  seen  "The  Merry 
Widow"  and  "The  Girl  from  Maxim's," 
wished  to  visit  the  notorious  establishment 
at  once.  He  went  there  for  dinner  on  the 
night  of  his  arrival  in  the  city,  only  to  find 
himself  alone  in  the  place  save  for  the  idle, 
grinning  waiters. 

I  congratulated  him. 

It  was  not  my  original  intention  to  men- 
tion Maxim's  quite  so  soon,  but  since  I 


28  Paris  a  la  Carte 

have  drifted  to  it,  I  may  as  well  continue. 
I  abominate  the  place,  not  because  it  is 
gay  or  seductive,  but  because 
it  is  precisely  the  reverse  —  a 
brazen  fake,  over -advertised, 
ogling,  odoriferous;  a  night- 
mare of  smoke,  champagne,  and  banality. 
Its  art  nouveau  mural  decorations  are  ver- 
tiginous and  terrible,  and  the  people  beneath 
them  are  even  worse  —  pudgy,  purple  men, 
trying  to  purchase  happiness  in  iced  bottles, 
and  solitary  sirens  trying  to  look  gay  and 
alluring  before  the  dismal  pints  of  cham- 
pagne which,  on  entering,  they  are  obliged 
to  order  if  they  wish  to  stay.  The  rest  are 
onlookers  who  might  better  have  remained 
away. 

However,  I  have  been  able  to  find  two 
sadly  funny  things  about  this  place:  a  re- 
volving door  and  a  chasseur.  The  former 
is,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  only  door  of  its  kind 
in  the  world.  Instead  of  the  usual  four 


Paris  a  la  Carte  29 

divisions,  it  has  but  two,  each  of  which  ac- 
commodates a  pair.  The  purpose  of  this 
door  is  beautifully  obvious:  it  prevents 
couples  devoted,  disgusted,  or  drunk,  as  the 
case  may  be,  from  even  an  instant's  separa- 
tion. The  chasseur  is  comic  because  of  his 
superbly  suitable  appearance.  A  youth  but 
little  more  than  four  feet  tall,  with  a  sallow, 
sharp  face  and  shrewd,  derisive  eyes,  he 
wears  a  bright  red  pill-box  cap,  set  so  jaun- 
tily upon  the  side  of  his  head  that  one  fancies 
it  must  hang  upon  a  sprouting  horn.  His 
flaming  jacket  is  cut  to  an  absurd  little 
point,  like  a  sharp  tail,  behind.  Altogether 
he  is  the  perfect  image  of  his  father,  Mephis- 
topheles,  who  (in  spite  of  reports  that  it  is 
owned  by  an  English  stock  company)  I  be- 
lieve is  the  proprietor  of  Maxim's.  Waiting 
with  his  bicycle,  to  carry  nasty  messages  for 
nasty  people,  you  may  see  the  diabolic  little 
chasseur  almost  any  time  you  drive  past 
Maxim's  (which  I  hope  you'll  always  do). 


LARUE'S 


3°  Paris  a  la  Carte 

You  need  drive  but  a  few  steps  farther  to 
reach  the  Restaurant  Larue,  which,  by  day, 
lies  in  the  shadow  of  the  church 
of  the  Madeleine,  and  by  night 
casts  shadows  of  its  own.  With 
its  excellent  cuisine  and  wines,  its  cosmopoli- 
tan clientele,  its  Tzigany  orchestra,  and  its 
florid  decorations,  Larue's  is  very  typical  of 
the  Paris  boulevards.  Americans  go  there, 
but  then,  so  do  Frenchmen.  And  French- 
women! It  is  not  coarse,  like  Maxim's,  but 
gay,  like  Paris;  the  sort  of  place  one  would 
select  for  a  first  meal  in  the  "ville  lumiere" 
after  two  years  spent  on  the  veldt,  or  in  one 
of  our  western  towns  with  funny  names  and 
"oyster  parlors"  situated  on  Main  Street. 

It  is  very  annoying  to  have  to  write  any- 
thing useful  or  instructive.  That  is  the 
trouble  with  this  article:  it  is  written  with 
a  purpose.  I  want  to  convert  you  from  the 
stupid  pretence  of  standing  before  statues 


Paris  a  la  Carte  31 

and  paintings  which  you  will  never  under- 
stand, and  teach  you  how  to  improve  your 
time  in  Paris,  so  that,  instead  of  coming 
away  with  a  blurred  list  of  painters  and 
sculptors,  you  will  bring  back  recollections, 
definite  and  permanent,  of  interesting  res- 
taurants, dishes,  and  people.  To  this  end  I 
must  encroach  somewhat  upon  the  field  of 
Mr.  Baedeker  and,  instead  of  describing 
separately  each  important  restaurant  on  or 
near  the  Grands  Boulevards,  run  through 
the  list  hurriedly: 

The  Hotel  Ritz,  Henry's  (not  Henry's 
bar),  Paillard's,  Durand's,*  and  the  Cafe 
Riche  are  fashionable  and  very  good.  The 

*  A  cable  dispatch  in  the  New  York  Times  contains  the 
sad  news  that  Durand's  closed  its  doors  after  dinner  on 
the  night  of  Dec.  19,  1911,  the  floods  of  the  year  previous 
having  undermined  the  foundations  of  the  building. 

"It  was  at  Durand's,"  says  the  dispatch,  "that  Gen. 
Boulanger  had  his  one  chance  for  a  coup  d'etat.  When 
the  boulevard  was  crowded  with  enthusiastic  mobs  singing 
and  cheering  the  then  popular  idol,  he  was  entertaining 
a  party  of  friends  in  one  of  the  private  rooms  on  the  first 
floor.  The  banquet  was  prolonged  until  early  morning 


32  Paris  a  la  Carte 

last  of  these  is  one  of  the  older  restaurants 
of  the  first  class,  having  been   established 
about  1820-30.    The  Cafe 
de  ^a  Pa*x  is  likewise  good, 
and   is   particularly    cele- 


A  GROUP  OF 
FAMOUS 

RESTAURANTS  for 


terrace,  where  one  may  sit 
over  a  lemonade,  a  sir  op,  or  an  ice,  and  watch 
the  fascinating  Paris  crowd.  The  Caf£  Ameri- 
cain  is  not  American  at  all,  and  has  a  rather 
sad  supper  room  up-stairs,  in  which,  late  at 
night,  professional  dancing-girls  waltz,  lack- 


and  the  populace  went  home  to  bed  before  the  feasting 
was  over." 

One  of  the  proprietors  of  Durand's  told  me  that  the 
mob  came  there  for  Boulanger  drawing  a  carriage,  in  which 
they  meant  to  take  Boulanger  to  the  Elysee  Palace  and 
proclaim  him  King,  but  that  either  because  he  was  afraid 
to  take  the  decisive  step,  or  because  he  was  enjoying  his 
dinner  too  well,  he  would  not  go,  and  thus  lost  his  one 
great  opportunity.  The  ancient  royalist  club  called  the 
Pot  au  Feu  occupied  rooms  over  Durand's,  having  existed 
for  a  number  of  centuries,  and  in  the  Musee  de  1'Armee 
there  is  a  clock  from  this  historic  restaurant  in  which  is 
lodged  a  bullet  which  came  in  through  the  window  at 
the  time  of  the  revolution. 


LONG  (AND  HIGH)  LIVE  THE  ARMY  ! 


Paris  a  la  Carte  33 

adaisically,  between  the  tables.  Prunier's  is 
famous  for  sea  food,  but  is  closed  in  hot 
weather.  Noel  Peter's  is  well  known  and 
good.  The  Restaurant  Champeaux  (es- 
tablished 1.800)  is  popular  with  stock-bro- 
kers, and  is  described  by  Zola  in  the  first 
chapter  of  "L' Argent." 

So  on,  down  the  boulevard,  until  we  come 
to  the  famous  and  admirable  Marguery's  in 
the  Boulevard  Bonne  Nou- 
velle.  Marguery's  is  neither 
painfully  fashionable  nor 
distressingly  expensive,  yet  it  is  one  of  the 
best  restaurants  in  Paris,  thriving,  despite  its 
some  what  out-of-the-way  location,  by  virtue 
of  fine  fare  and  a  consequent  strong  bour- 
geois support.  I  hope  that  it  will  always 
thrive,  and  that  I  shall  often  see  it  doing  so — 
over  a  platter  of  sole  a  la  Marguery:  the 
most  delectable  of  fish,  cooked  in  the  most 
marvellous  of  manners. 

The  bent,  picturesque  figure  of  old  Mon- 

3 


34  Paris  a  la  Carte 

sieur  Marguery,  with  the  red  ribbon  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  in  his  buttonhole,  is  no 
longer  to  be  seen  passing  from  table  to 
table.  He  belonged  to  an  age  and  type 
which  are  fast  vanishing.  Companies  run 
restaurants  to-day,  and  companies  can  not 
be  expected  to  have  white  hair,  or  person- 
ality, or  to  stroll  among  the  tables  bowing 
and  keeping  an  eye  to  the  service.  Com- 
panies hire  men  to  do  this  sort  of  thing. 
And  from  my  observation,  they  thus  give 
legal  and  lucrative  employment  to  many 
individuals  who,  had  they  lived  in  other 
times,  would  very  likely  have  sailed  the 
Spanish  Main  under  a  flag  like  the  label  on 
a  carbolic-acid  bottle. 

In  enumerating  these  leading  restaurants, 
I  have  purposely  omitted  Voisin's  and  the 
Cafe  Anglais,  because  they  are  entirely 
unique.  Built  before  the  days  of  Midas  & 
Co.,  architects  and  mural  decorators,  whose 
touch  has  turned  all  modern  restaurants  to 


Paris  a  la  Carte  35 

gold,  these  two  fine  old  establishments  hold 
out  with  patriarchal  scorn  against  the  flam- 
boyant tendencies  of  the  times.  Their  door- 
ways are  not  the  doorways  of  palaces ;  they 
are  white,  inside  and  out;  they  employ  no 
orchestras  to  drown  stupid  conversation,  no 
buccaneers  of  waiters  to  gouge  their  patrons. 
They  are  the  two  great  ancient  temples  of 
the  French  cuisine  which  still  remain  in 
Paris. 

Voisin's,  the  more  recent  of  the  two,  was 
established  in  1813,  in  a  building  belong- 
ing to  a  convent,  the  grounds  of  which  occu- 
pied, until   the   Revolu- 
tion, the  entire  neighbor-       THE  ANCIENT 
hood.      It     has     never  DIGNITY 

moved  from  its  location,         OF  VOISIN>S 


and  has  changed  hands 
but  twice.     Its  cellars  (containing  such  vin- 
tages as  Chateau  Margaux,  1846,  Chateau 
Lafitte,  and  Chateau  Haut-Brion,  1847)  are 
the  most  famous,  I  suppose,  of  any  public 


36  Paris  a  la  Carte 

cellars  in  the  world.  And  if  there  are  no 
prices  on  the  bill  of  fare,  one  does  not  feel 
resentful,  for  one  knows  tliat  there  will  be  no 
overcharging,  as  at  certain  other  restaurants 
where  this  custom  holds. 

I  have  the  menu  of  a  Christmas  dinner 
held  at  Voisin's  in  the  year  1870,  on  the 
ninety-ninth  day  of  the  siege  of  Paris.  Per- 
haps they  did  not  eat  the  things  which  were 
listed  on  that  card,  but  they  perpetrated 
a  brave  joke  in  face  of  famine  and  disaster, 
when  they  debonairly  listed  such  dishes  as 
Roast  Camel,  Stuffed  Donkey's  Head,  and 
Cats  with  Rat  Dressing. 

The  Cafe  Anglais  is,  in  history,  spirit, 
and  appearance,  very  similar  to  Voisin's. 
Fournier,  in  his  "Promenade  Historique 
dans  Paris,"  tells  of  the  discovery  of  the 
place  in  the  year  1800  by  some  gay  young 
men  who  soon  made  it  famous  and  caused 
its  transformation  from  a  humble  little  ca- 
baret into  a  restaurant  of  the  first  order. 


THE 
CAFE  ANGLAIS 

AND  ITS 
FINGER-BOWLS 


Paris  a  la  Carte  37 

The  great  men  of  the  last  century  have 
dined  at  both  these  restaurants,  and  pre- 
cious souvenirs  of  royal  _ 
patrons  are  preserved  at 
the  Cafe  Anglais,  in  shape 
of  finger-bowls,  each  bear- 
ing the  monogram  and 
cipher  of  the  king  or  prince  who  used  it. 
The  late  King  Edward's  finger-bowl  is 
there,  as  are  also  those  of  the  Kaiser, 
the  late  Leopold  of  Belgium,  the  King  and 
the  Crown  Prince  of  Greece,  the  King 
of  Spain,  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  the 
ex- King  Manuel  of  Portugal,  and  many 
others. 

Collectors  look  upon  these  souvenirs  with 
greedy  eyes. 

"But,  Monsieur,"  the  maitre  d'h6tel  ex- 
plained to  me,  "they  are  not  ours  to  sell. 
We  regard  them  as  the  private  property  of 
their  respective  majesties  and  royal  high- 
nesses. And  what  would  they  think,  Mon- 


38  Paris  a  la  Carte 

sieur,  on  coming  back,  to  find  their  finger- 
bowls  no  longer  here?" 

"King  Edward  and  King  Leopold  will 
not  come  back,"  I  ventured. 

"True,  Monsieur,"  he  replied  with  dig- 
nity, "and  that  is  but  an  added  reason  why 
we  most  respectfully  preserve  their  finger- 
bowls." 

I  know  of  several  other  notable  restau- 
rants, but  of  less  aristocratic  lineage,  which 
are  as  old  or  older  than  Voisin's  and  the 
Cafe  Anglais.  One  of  these,  Gauclair's, 
was  founded  in  1800,  and  still  flourishes  on 
its  old  site,  especially  at  the  luncheon  hour. 

Another,  the  Bceuf  a  la 

Mode,  in  the  rue  Valois, 
was  founded  in  1792.  It 
is  a  favourite  eating- 
place  of  mine,  simple,  old-fashioned,  very 
good.  And  it  is  near  the  Palais  Royal,  the 
Com6die  Franchise,  and  the  Louvre;  so 


THE  OLD  BOEUF 
A  LA  MODE 


Paris  a  la  Carte  39 

if,  in  spite  of  my  advice,  you  insist  on 
sightseeing,  you  may  find  it  convenient. 
And  if,  while  in  that  neighborhood,  you'll 
look  within  the  courtyard  of  the  Palais 
Royal,  at  the  further  end,  you'll  see  a  res- 
taurant— no  longer  fashionable — whither, 
in  other  days,  were  wont  to  dine  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  court  of  Napoleon  III. 
Older  even  than  the  Boeuf  a  la  Mode  is 
the  Tour  d'Argent,  which,  so  far  as  I  know, 
has  the  record  for  antiquity,  having  existed 
upon  its  present  site  on  the  Quai  de  la  Tour- 
nelle  since  1582,  or  within  less  than  four- 
score years  of  the  death  of  Christopher 
Columbus.  The  place  is  rather  dingy;  one 
does  not  go  there  to  hear  music  or  to  see 
crowds  and  elaborate  costumes,  but  for  the 
special  dishes  cooked  by  old  Fred6ric,*  who, 
with  his  Ibsenesque  head  and  his  broad 

*  Frederic  Delair  died  in  Paris  about  the  time  these 
lines  were  written.  His  death  was  widely  noticed  through- 
out France. 


40  Paris  a  la  Carte 

shoulders,  stooping  under  the  weight  of  the 
sixty-nine  years  they  carry,  is  one  of  the 
sights  of  Paris — and  knows  it. 

His  greatest  specialty  is  canard  presse. 
When  Frederic  carves  a  Rouen  duck,  crushes 
the  carcass  in  a  silver  press, 
mixes  his  savoury  sauce,  and 
with  it  anoints  the  tender 
slices,  people  at  the  tables 
lay  down  their  knives  and  forks  to  watch, 
and  waiters  stand  about  in  prayerful  atti- 
tudes. The  very  writing  of  the  thing  fills 
me  with  a  great  desire ;  yet  a  still  small  voice 
whispers  to  me  that  I'm  better  off  away  from 
Frederic's.  His  canard  presse  is  extremely 
rich,  and  the  "gathering  of  material"  for 
such  books  as  this  gives  one  a  tendency 
toward  biliousness  and  gout. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  this  may  be  the  rea- 
son why  so  little  information  has  hitherto 
been  given  on  the  subject  of  the  Paris  res- 
taurants. Writers  have  doubtless  tried  to 


(6  < 


o.  a 


O   < 


FREDERIC'S 
HALL  OF  FAME 


Paris  a  la  Carte  41 

tell  about  them,  but  have  died  in  the  at- 
tempt, or  given  up  and  gone  to  Carlsbad. 

Notwithstanding  this,  there  are  persons 
who  have  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  having 
dishes  named  for  them  by  Frederic,  yet 
lived.  On  the  menu  of 
the  Tour  d' Argent  will 
be  found  the  following: 
Sole  Loie  Fuller,  Canape 
Clarence  Mackay,  Sole  Phipps,  Salmon  Trout 
Munsey,  and,  getting  down  to  dessert,  Pear 
Wanamaker — in  which  dish  a  slangy  Parisian 
might  find  the  flavour  of  a  double  entente;  for, 
in  France,  to  call  a  man  a  poire  is  to  refer 
ironically  to  the  shape  of  his  head  and  the 
paucity  of  its  contents — as  witness  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  journalist  who  applied  the 
term  to  King  Louis  Philippe. 

I  once  wormed  myself  into  the  confidence 
of  one  of  Frederic's  waiters,  a  confidence 
which  I  shall  now  betray. 

"Mais  oui,   Monsieur,"   he  smiled.     "I 


42  Paris  a  la  Carte 

can  make  canard  presse  as  well  as  any  one. 
But  then,  Monsieur,  the  people  would  not 
come  to  see  me  do  it.  I  have  neither  the 
so  grand  manner  nor  yet  the  so  grand 
whiskers  which  have  made  my  patron  rich, 
Monsieur." 

I  was  not  entirely  surprised  to  hear  that 
my  friend  Frederic  was  rich.  Not  only  does 
he  charge  good  round  prices,  but  he  has 
served  me  wines  which,  on  comparing  price 
with  flavour,  made  me  think  he  was  just  a 
trifle  richer  than  he  really  ought  to  be. 

At  Frederic's  we  find  ourselves  for  the 
first  time  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  a 
region  which  one  thinks  of  as  being  given 
over  to  art,  medical  and  university  students, 
and  the  Bon  Marche. 
Here,  from  the  river  back 
to  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  Latin  Quarter,  will  be 
found  a  sprinkling  of  restaurants  and  cafes 
of  both  high  and  low  degree.  On  the  quai, 


LAPEROUSE 
AND  R.  L.  S. 


Paris  a  la  Carte  43 

not  far  from  the  Pont  Neuf,  is  the  Caf6 
Laperouse,  well  known  to  all  the  artists  and 
literary  men  who  have  frequented  the 
French  capital  in  the  last  half-century. 
It  is  as  good  a  place  to-day,  I  think,  as  when 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  his  friends 
were  wont  to  go  there.  The  prices  are  rea- 
sonable (as  prices  should  be  upon  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine)'  and  the  fish  and  chicken 
specialties  are  worth  investigation. 

Those  who  remember  Thackeray's  "Bal- 
lad of  the  Bouillabaisse,"  will  find  the  res- 
taurant   therein     cele- 
brated a  few  blocks  back 
of  the    Cafe   Laperouse, 
near  the  church  of  Saint 
Germain  des  Pres.    I  do 
not  know   that   bouillabaisse  may  still  be 
had  there,  but  I  hope  so.    Perhaps  you  will 
find  out. 

Still  further  from  the  Seine,  not  far  from 
the  Odeon  Theatre,  is  the  Hotel  Corneille, 


THACKERAY 

AND 
LITTLE  BILLEE 


44  Paris  a  la  Carte 

where  Little  Billee  lived,  when  he  was  in 
love  with  Trilby,  and  near  it  is  the  Res- 
taurant de  1'Odeon,  where  he  went  with 
Taffy  and  The  Laird,  and  found  that  "the 
omelettes  were  good  and  the  wine  wasn't 
blue."  Undoubtedly  the  best  restaurant  on 
this  side  of  the  river  is  the  Foyot,  near  the 
Luxembourg  galleries  and  gardens.  The 
Foyot  is  a  fine,  unpretentious  old  place,  fre- 
quented by  professors  from  the  Sorbonne 
and  the  schools,  and  by  the  senators  of 
France.  Its  wines  and  cuisine  are  of  the 
very  best.  Of  the  thousand  stories  hanging 
'round  the  old  white  build- 
ing there  is  one,  which  I 
recall,  that  played  upon 
the  sardonic  risibilities  of 


A  COMEDY 

AT  THE 
CAFE  FOYOT 


Paris  for  a  week.  An  edi- 
torial writer  on  one  of  the  Parisian  news- 
papers, who  was  very  fond  of  airing,  in 
print,  his  anarchistic  tendencies,  was  also 
very  fond  of  dining  at  the  Cafe  Foyot.  At 


Paris  a  la  Carte  45 

the  time  of  which  I  write  an  anarchist  had 
thrown  a  bomb  in  the  restaurant  of  the 
H6tel  Terminus  at  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  in- 
juring a  number  of  persons,  and  the  anar- 
chistic editorial  writer  had  shocked  Paris  by 
writing,  apropos  of  the  crime,  a  grimly  cyn- 
ical leader,  excusing  the  bomb-thrower  on 
various  aesthetical  grounds.  Each  para- 
graph of  this  clever  bit  of  sophistry  ended 
with  a  phrase  demanding:  what  difference 
do  the  lives  of  a  few  rich  persons  make  "si 
le  geste  est  beau"?  One  evening,  a  few  weeks 
after  the  publication  of  the  editorial,  our 
newspaper  man  was  at  the  Cafe  Foyot,  re- 
galing himself  upon  one  of  the  famous  chops, 
cooked  in  paper  wrappers,  which  are  a 
specialty  of  the  place,  when  another  anar- 
chist came  along  with  another  bomb,  and, 
mistaking  his  brother  in  the  cause  of  the  red 
flag  for  a  certain  unpopular  senator  whom 
he  resembled,  let  fly  his  missile.  It  was  the 
sort  of  thing  which  wouldn't  happen  in  any 


46  Paris  &  la  Carte 

other  place  but  Paris  and  wouldn't  be  enjoyed 
by  any  other  people  as  by  the  Parisians.  So 
when,  to  use  the  vernacular,  the  anarchistic 
editor  "got  his,"  the  whole  press  of  Paris— 
and  it  is  the  wittiest  press  on  earth  —  burst 
forth  as  one  voice  with  the  ironical  demand : 
"What  matters  it  "si  le  geste  est  beau11? 

Probably  the  best-known  restaurants  of 
the  Latin  Quarter  are  on  or  near  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel- 
known  familiarly  among 
the  people  of  the  quar- 
/^rasthe"BoulMich'." 
Representative  among 
them  are:  Pascal's  in  the  rue  de  1'ficole  du 
Medecin,  frequented  principally  by  medical 
students  and  their  "bonnes  amies;"  the  Cafe 
d'Harcourt,  in  the  boulevard  near  by,  an  old 
favourite  among  the  art  students;  and  the 
Taverne  du  Pantheon,  also  on  the  "Boul' 
Mich',"  much  the  same  as  the  Harcourt, 


GAY  CAFES 

OF  THE 
LATIN  QUARTER 


Paris  a  la  Carte  47 

though  somewhat  more  pretentious.  In 
these  cafes,  or  on  the  sidewalk  terraces  out- 
side the  two  last-named,  one  sees,  at  night, 
the  gay,  outdoor  life  of  the  present  Latin 
Quarter.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  sordidness, 
a  good  deal  of  pose,  and  a  great  deal  of 
youth  about  it,  but  it  is  not  so  heartless 
and  commercial  as  the  night  life  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river. 

Though  some  writers  try  to  keep  up  the 
illusion  of  the  "Real  Latin  Quarter,"  the 
fact  is  that  the  days  of  "Trilby"  and  of 
gay  grisettes  are  gone.  The  grisette  is  an 
extinct  animal,  having  evolved  into  the 
model  or  the  cocotte,  and  though  one  sees  in 
these  cafes  evidences  of  the  fact  that  life  in 
the  Latin  Quarter  may  still  be  loose,  the 
students'  trousers  are  not  nearly  so  loose  as 
they  were  twenty,  or  even  ten,  years  ago. 
If  a  few  young  men  affect  the  baggy  cor- 
duroys, long  matted  hair,  and  flat  hats  once 
so  prevalent,  they  are  the  inefficients  who, 


48  Paris  a  la  Carte 

being  unable  to  paint,  devote  themselves  to 
shedding  a  glamour  on  the  quartier  and  soup 
on  their  Windsor  ties.  Nevertheless,  if  one 
be  finicky  enough  to  disapprove  of  kissing 
between  mouthfuls  (and  strictly  between 
friends,  of  course)  'twere  better  not  to  dine 
or  sup  on  the  "Boul'  Mich'." 

The  Restaurant  Lavenue,  near  the  Mont- 
parnasse  railway  station,  though  frequented 
by  artists,  shows  more  re- 
straint than  the  last  three  I 
have  mentioned.  It  is  di- 
vided into  two  sections,  the  Grand  and  the 
Petit  Lavenue.  The  former  is  the  more  ex- 
pensive and  pretentious,  and  is  more  likely  to 
be  crowded,  having  as  a  drawing  card  a 
particularly  good  violinist  by  the  name  of 
Schumacher. 

For  the  rest,  the  boulevards  and  side 
streets  of  the  neighborhood  are  fairly  dotted 
over  with  quiet  little  restaurants,  some  of 
them  decorated  by  the  students,  where  one 


Paris  a  la  Carte  49 

may  lunch  or  dine  surprisingly  well  for  a 
franc  or  two.  The  average  traveller  will 
not  be  interested  in  these  humble  places,  I 
suppose,  but  for  the  benefit  of  others  who 
may  wish  to  find  them  I  shall  take  the  risk 
of  mentioning  old  Mere  Boudet's,  where  I 
used  to  lunch  some  years  ago — and  very 
well  for  very  little  money.  They  tell  me 
that  Mere  Boudet's  isn't 
what  it  used  to  be ;  that 

T        .          .  ,  RESTAURANTS 

Louise,  the  pretty  bonne, 
no  longer  graces  it;  that 
it  has  grown  large  and 
lost  its  intimacy.  They  say  "the  crowd" 
all  goes  to  Garnier's  now.  I  do  not  know. 
Things  change.  But  somewhere,  not  too 
far  from  the  old  Hotel  Haute  Loire  (within 
whose  ramshackle,  flatiron-shaped  walls, 
so  many  men,  destined  to  paint  their  way 
to  fame,  have  lived,  on  first  arriving  in  the 
city  of  their  dreams),  somewhere  about 
that  neighborhood  there  is  a  place  to  which 


LITTLE 


FOR 
THE  ARTISTS 


5°  Paris  a  la  Carte 

the  students,  the  poor  artists,  and  the  models 
of  the  region  go  to-day  to  lunch  and  dine. 
The  slender  Russian  girl — uncorseted  but 
never  unescorted — who  dressed  in  flowing 
robes  and  wore  sandals  on  her  feet  and  a 
fillet  round  her  jet-black  hair,  is  doubtless 
gone,  these  several  years.  But  let  us  hope 
that  there  is  some  one  else,  spectacular  as 
she  was,  whom  you  may  see  upon  your 
Latin  Quarter  prowl. 

Perhaps  at  this  point  you'll  permit  a  word 
about  the  cheapest  eating- places  of  the  city. 
The  establishments  Duval  and  Bouillon- 
Boulant  are  scattered  over 
Paris  as  are  those  of  Childs 
and  Kohlsaat  in  New  York 
and  Chicago.  They  are 
very  inexpensive,  far  from  bad,  and  are  pa- 
tronised by  shop-clerks  and  the  like.  Fur- 
thermore, there  are  literally  thousands  of 
small  independent  bars  and  wine-shops,  in 


INEXPENSIVE 
CAFES 


Paris  a  la  Carte  51 

almost  any  one  of  which  a  good  omelette, 
soup,  broiled  ham,  or  other  simple  dish,  may 
be  obtained  for  a  few  sous.  Many  of  these 
places  are  known  as  "rendez-vous  des  cockers" 
and  are  largely  patronised  by  cabmen,  who 
in  their  voyages  about  the  city  soon  learn 
where  the  best  food  is  served  for  the  least 
money.  And  let  me  tell  you,  there  are 
many  well-to-do  Americans  who  do  not  eat 
such  appetising  and  nutritious  meals  in  their 
own  homes  as  are  enjoyed  by  the  jolly,  red- 
faced  Paris  cockers. 

It  is  natural  that  Paris,  with  her  cosmo- 
politan population,  should  have  a  group  of 
restaurants   specialising  in 
the  cuisine  of  other  lands. 
Several  German   cafes   are 
to   be   found    upon    the 
boulevards;   a  Spanish 
restaurant,   at    14  rue  du   Helder;    and    a 
restaurant  called  Vian's,  at  22  rue  Daunou, 


52  Paris  a  la  Carte 

opposite  the  Hotel  Chatham,  where  the 
homesick  American  may  procure  codfish 
balls,  corn-bread,  sweet  corn  on  the  cob,  and 
other  dishes  to  remind  him  that  the  United 
States  is  not  without  her  culinary  specialties. 
There  are  also  several  Italian  restaurants: 
one  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  another 
in  the  Passage  des  Panoramas,  and  still 
another,  little  known,  yet  very  fascinating, 
quite  at  the  top  of  the  Montmartre. 

The  rather  inaccessible  position  occupied 
by  the  Restaurant  du  Coucou  has  saved  it, 
so  far,  to  the  coterie  of 
artists,   actors,    journal- 
ists,   and    literary    folk 


THE  CHARM 

OF  THE 

RESTAURANT 

DU  COUCOU 


make    up    its    clientele. 

It  perches  like  a  bird's- 
nest  on  the  steep  hillside  which  surrounds  the 
Sacre  Coeur.  In  front  of  the  picturesque, 
dilapidated  old  building  which  is  the  restau- 
rant proper,  lies  a  tiny  square,  the  name  of 


Paris  a  la  Carte  S3 

which  I  shall  not  give — for  if  you  have  not 
the  energy  to  find  it,  you  don't  deserve  to 
know  about  the  Restaurant  du  Coucou. 
The  square  sleeps  throughout  the  day,  but 
as  dinner-time  approaches  appear  fimilie, 
Marguerite,  Rina,  and  Charles  (the  children 
of  Vincent,  chef  and  proprietor  of  the  Cou- 
cou), bearing  little  tables  and  rush-bottom 
chairs,  which  they  set  about  the  open  place 
between  their  building  and  the  studio- 
residence  of  the  artist  across  the  way. 

Vincent  came  from  Asti,  in  Italy,  a  good 
many  years  ago,  and,  after  being  maitre 
d' hotel  in  well-known  families,  started  his 
little  restaurant  a  decade  since.  His  cheer- 
ful femme,  who  watches  the  accounts,  is 
Swiss,  but  the  children,  who  serve  the 
diners,  possess  (like  the  cooking  and  the  Asti 
wine)  the  qualities  of  their  father's  father- 
land. More  than  any  other  place  I  know, 
perhaps,  the  Restaurant  du  Coucou  strikes 
me  as  superbly  simple,  rare,  unspoiled.  It  is 


54  Paris  a  la  Carte 

like  a  scene  from  Charpentier's  "Louise"; 
like  the  veritable  citadel  of  "La  Boheme." 
When  darkness  falls,  the  three  girls  ap- 
pear with  tiny  lamps,  which,  placed  about 
upon  the  tables,  shed  glow-worm  lights 
upon  the  diners,  among  whom  Charles, 
youngest  of  Vincent's  flock,  passes  in  the 
r61e  of  jester,  "blagueing"  and  being  spoiled. 
With  the  aid  of  what  I  have  told  you,  you 

can  find  the  Restaurant 

du  Coucou  in  an  hour 
or  two's  tramp.  Having 
found  it,  select  a  balmy 
night  to  dine  there.  You  will  sit  a  long 
time  before  asking  for  your  bill,  which 
will  be  written  in  chalk  upon  a  slate,  and 
very  moderate.  We  were  four  at  table 
the  last  time  I  visited  the  Coucou,  and 
Rina's  slate  called  for  twenty  francs,  or  just 
one  dollar  each,  for  a  meal  of  soup,  spa- 
ghetti, lobster,  salad,  and  other  things, 
washed  down  with  Asti  wine.  I  paid,  but, 


TWO 
OVERCHARGES 


Paris  a  la  Carte  55 

just  as  we  were  leaving,  Rina  came  run- 
ning after  me,  announcing  a  mistake. 

"How  much  more?"  I  asked,  slipping  my 
hand  into  my  pocket. 

"Nothing,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  showing 
me  the  amendment  on  her  slate.  "We 
owe  you  two  francs." 

I  had  a  different  experience  at  Larue's  a 
few  nights  later.  This  time  I  discovered  an 
error  of  a  few  francs  on  a  much  bigger  bill, 
and  requested  that  it  be  corrected.  The 
waiter  took  the  bill  away,  and  when  he 
brought  it  back  it  was  larger  than  before. 
They  had  deducted  the  amount  I  objected 
to,  but  added  a  larger  sum  against  another 
item !  The  restaurateurs  of  the  boulevards 
do  not  believe  in  "revision  downward." 

Since  the  time  the  ancient  Gauls  first 
made  their  marmite,  it  has  been  the  custom 
of  Gallic  people  to  consider  eating  passion- 
ately. The  art  of  the  cuisine  is  to  the 


56  Paris  a  la  Carte 

French  what  the — may  one  say  art? — of 
the  Quick  Lunch  is  to  us,  excepting  that 
our  quick  lunch  is  so  very,  very  quick  that 
we  have  no  time  (or  reason)  to  be  proud  of 
it.  No  American  has  ever  undertaken  to 
write  grandly,  majestically,  of  the  quick 
lunch,  but  there  are  Frenchmen  who  have 
earned  immortal  names  by  writing  of  mat- 
ters which  may,  with  particular  correctness, 
be  described  as  "touching  on  the  stomach 
and  the  palate."  Consider,  for  example,  the 
fulminations  of  Fulbert  Dumonteuil,  in  the 
"Almanach  des  Gourmands": 

"  It  is  the  flag  of  the  French  cuisine,  which 
our  incomparable  master-cooks  have  proud- 
ly planted  upon  the  strange  soil  of  grateful 
and  charmed  nations.  And  every  day  its 
Empire  grows  more  vast,  and,  above  all, 
more  durable  than  those  of  Alexander  and 
of  Charlemagne!" 

What  is  left  to  other  nations  in  face  of 
such  a  gastronomic  war-whoop  but  to  strike 


Paris  a  la  Carte  57 

their  colours  to  the  French?  And  we  do 
strike  them  (all  of  us  but  the  Germans)  by 
wearing  our  napkins  at  humble  half-mast, 
in  our  laps,  while  the  Frenchman  raises  the 
white  banner  of  culinary  conquest  to  full 
height,  flaunting  it  victoriously  from  be- 
tween his  collar  and  his  double  chin. 

If  the  French  do  not  know  how  to  eat, 
they  certainly  do  know  what  and  where  to 
eat.  Eating  is  part  of  the  Parisian's  train- 
ing for  the  one  game,  the  one  industry,  the 
one  passionate  pursuit  on  which  the  whole 
of  his  existence  centres — 
the  pursuit  of  woman. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF 

PARISIAN 
RESTAURANTS 


Each  time  I  go  to  Paris 
I  see  more  clearly  that 
the  superb  restaurants, 
with  their  rich  food  and  drink,  their  seduc- 
tive music,  and  their  little  stairways,  leading 
up  to  cabinets  particuliers,  are  designed  to 
strike  one  incessant  note  in  the  bacchanalian 
chorus  of  the  Venusberg — a  chorus  in  which 


5§  Paris  a  la  Carte 

other  notes  are  struck  by  the  literature,  the 
drama,  the  costumiers,  milliners,  and  jewel- 
lers, the  insinuating  deep-topped  fiacres  and 
taxis  scurrying  on  clandestine  errands. 

"  The  fairy  of  toilettes,"  an  anonymous 
French  writer  says  of  one  Paris  restaurant 
(and  he  might  have  said  it  of  a  score),  "the 
fairy  of  adornments,  of  jewels,  of  shoulders, 
the  poem  of  the  flesh,  the  eyes  of  sorceresses, 
palpitating  throats,  superb  hair,  white  hands 
covered  with  precious  stones,  compliments 
and  favours,  kisses  and  embraces,  love  and 
voluptuousness,  wealth,  happiness,  joy, 
youth,  luxury,  shine  resplendently  in  ele- 
gantly decorated  rooms,  bloom  in  the  inti- 
macy of  picturesque  salons.  ..." 

There  is  a  glimpse  of  the  Frenchman's 
point  of  view  as  set  down  by  himself!  Two 
types  of  Paris  restaurants  exemplify  it  in 
its  extremity.  In  its  most  elegant  aspect 
it  is  to  be  seen  in  the  outdoor  and  semi- 
outdoor  establishments  of  the  Bois  de  Bou- 


4 


Paris  a  la  Carte  59 

logne  and  the  Champs  Elysees;  in  its  more 
sordid  and  professional  quality  in  the  sup- 
per places  of  M ontmartre. 

The    outdoor    restaurants    of    Paris    are 
unique.      Architects,    landscape   gardeners, 
and  nature  have  combined 
with      chefs     and     maitres 
d'h6tel  to  endow  them  with 
a  theatrical  allure  so  extrava- 
gant that,  even  in  broad  day, 
they  give  one  a  strong  sense  of  unreality. 

The  Chateau  de  Madrid,  a  hotel  run  by 
the  proprietors  of  the  Restaurant  Henry,  is 
the  latest  of  them.  It  occupies,  almost  foot 
for  foot,  the  site  of  a  chateau  built  by 
Francois  I.  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  possesses  one  or  two  souvenirs 
of  the  original  structure.  The  other  outlying 
places,  the  Pre  Catelan,  Pavilion  d'Armenon- 
ville,  Cascade,  etc.,  are  arranged  on  a  differ- 
ent plan,  each  having  a  central  pavilion — a 
low  building  with  large  dining-rooms  below, 


60  Paris  a  la  Carte 

private  ones  above,  and  wide  verandas, 
glass-enclosed  or  not,  according  to  the 
weather.  Around  these 
central  buildings  lie  gar- 
dens sheltered  by  opulent 
trees,  walled  in  by  secretive  hedges,  filled 
with  the  scent  of  flowers,  the  sound  of 
music,  and  the  sense  of  sophisticated 
seclusion. 

Especially  during  the  racing-season  is  the 
show  at  the  Pre  Catelan  and  Armenonville 
spectacular.  For  dejeuner,  tea,  and  dinner 
they  are  crowded,  but  have,  perhaps,  their 
largest  throng  for  what  Paris  calls  the  "feeve 
o'clock."  For  this  function,  which  the  French 
now  indulge  in  quite  as  regularly  as  the 
English,  an  endless  line  of  vehicles  arrives 
with  women  in  toilettes  elegant  and  extreme 
beyond  the  belief  of  Anglo-Saxon  man,  and 
French  men  of  fashion,  gommeux,  with 
pointed  shoes,  English  clothes,  canes,  silk 
hats,  monocles,  and  quick,  appreciative 


Paris  a  la  Carte  61 

glances  for  such  women  as  are  either  beauti- 
ful, chic,  or  bizarre. 

Effective  as  they  are  by  day,  it  is  not 
until  night  that  the  great  hour  of  the  al 
fresco  restaurants  arrives.  At  dinner-time, 
and  through  the  evening,  they  are  like  Be- 
lasco  stage-settings,  very  perfect  and  en- 
tirely theatrical.  There  is  the  play,  but  it 
does  not  progress.  It  is  the  same,  hour 
after  hour,  night  after  night,  year  after 
year. 

The  performers  come  in  two  by  two,  take 
tables  on  the  verandas,  or  in  the  little  bow- 
ers and  kiosks  of  the  gardens — men  with 
extraordinary  beards  and  mustachios,  wom- 
en with  mysteriously  wise  eyes  and  fascina- 
ting gowns — to  consume  rare  wines  and 
viands  brought  (to  music)  by  discreetly 
self-effacing  waiters.  What  place  could  be 
more  fitting  for  a  rendezvous  (ah,  beautiful 
French  word!)  with  some  one's  tremulously 
lovely  wife — perchance  your  own? 


62  Paris  a  la  Carte 

Best  of  all  these  garden  spots,  I  like  to 
dine  at  the  Cafe  Laurent  in  the  Champs 
Elysees.     Though  smaller  than  Ledoyen's 
across  the  way  (where  a  thousand  people 
will  dine  of  a  summer's  eve- 
ning), there  is  something  su- 
perlative about  it :  its  cooking 
and   service   are   superb,    its 
patrons  very  fashionable,  its 
gardens  gloriously  theatric,  and  its  prices — 
well,  they  are,  too. 

The  garden  would  make  a  perfect  setting 
for  the  second  act  of  a  "comedy  of  manners," 
in  which  one  of  the  characters  is  a  beautiful 
young  Russian  woman  with  a  gown  cut  to 
an  acute  V  in  the  back.  She  would  rest  a 
pair  of  lovely  elbows  on  the  table,  hold 
a  cigarette  between  jewelled  fingers,  and 
gaze  off  through  the  trees  at  the  necklace  of 
amethyst  lights  that  encircles  the  Theatre 
Marigny.  The  men  would  be  ambassa- 
dors, and  they  would  talk  in  well-bred 


Paris  a  la  Carte  63 

voices  while  an  orchestra  played  throbbing 
waltzes. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  I  wished  to  set  a 
scene  for  a  "Zaza"  sort  of  drama,  about  an 
innocent  youth  and  a  fiery,  wiry  actress,  I 
should  betake  myself  to  the  Cafe  des  Am- 
bassadeurs,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Lau- 
rent. There  I  should  have  my  rich  young 
hero  (he  would  have  to  be  rich  to  do  it) 
take  a  table  in  the  first  row  of  the  balcony, 
where  one  may  dine  while  witnessing  the 
performance  in  the  half-outdoor  music-hall 
below.  The  plot  of  the  play  for  which  I 
select  this  scene  would  depend  upon  the 
country  for  which  it  was  written.  If  it  was 
for  America,  it  would  hinge  upon  the  efforts 
of  the  actress  to  send  the  boy  back  to  home 
and  mother,  but  if  for  France,  upon  her 
efforts  to  keep  him  away  from  them.  For 
the  French  use  vinegar  and  pepper  where 
we  use  cream  and  sugar. 

But  it  is  getting  late.     We  must  decide 


64  Paris  a  la  Carte 

between  repose  and  prowling.  Of  course,  I 
recommend  that  we  go  home,  but  you — ah! 
I  can  tell  from  the  glitter  of  your  eye  that 
the  nocturnal  restlessness  of  Paris  is  sur- 
ging through  your  veins.  Well,  as  you  must 
sit  up,  let's  go  to  Fysher's. 

Fysher's  is  not  properly  a  cafe.  It  is 
(rather  improperly,  I  fear)  a  wine-room, 
where  nothing  but  cham- 
pagne is  served ;  a  fast,  chic, 
boulevard  edition  of  the  old- 
time  cabaret,  in  which  the 
threadbare  poets  and  composers  of  Mont- 
martre  rendered  their  compositions  before 
shabby,  appreciative  audiences,  sipping 
sirops,  beers,  or  absinthes. 

The  place  consists  of  one  small  room,  full 
of  chairs  and  tables.  Through  the  three  hours 
that  follow  the  striking  of  eleven  it  is  packed 
with  fashionably  dressed  men  and  women, 
representing  "smart"  society,  the  stage,  and 
the  "upper  class"  of  the  demi-monde. 


Paris  a  la  Carte  65 

Fysher's  has  been  running  several  years, 
but  has,  both  metaphorically  and  literally, 
been  kept  dark.  Double  doors  and  shut- 
ters keep  the  light  and  music  from  getting 
out,  and  stray  nocturnal  wayfarers  and 
fresh  air  from  getting  in.  When  the  room 
becomes  hot  and  smoky,  a  waiter  under- 
takes to  purify  the  atmosphere  with  a  fine 
spray  from  a  nickel-plated  squirt-gun, 
charged  with  perfume.  Real  ventilation 
would,  as  a  friend  of  mine  remarked,  seem 
to  the  French  unpatriotic. 

Fysher,  who  is  something  of  an  artist, 
rises  now  and  then  and  sings  French 
love-songs  written  and  composed  by  him- 
self— tender,  lilting  bits,  of  the  type  made 
known  to  American  theatre-goers  by  Mau- 
rice Farkoa  and  Henri  Leoni.  The  senti- 
ments in  Fysher's  songs  run  to  such 
declarations  as: 

If  life  were  one  long  kiss, 
I  would  choose  your  lips  for  a  dwelling  place 
5 


66  Paris  a  la  Carte 

and  the  rhymes  to  such  combinations  as 
tendresse — caresse — ivresse,  which  are  the 
French  equivalents,  more  or  less,  of  our  own 
old  favourites,  lady  love — stars  above — 
turtle  dove. 

There  are  other  singers  who  alternate 
with  Fysher,  and  sometimes  a  volunteer  is 
found  among  the  tables.  One  of  the  regular 
singers  whom  I  heard  there  last  year,  a 
pretty  young  woman  with  a  vase-like  figure 
and  a  bell-like  voice,  is  starring  in  opera  in 
America  this  year.  The  other,  I  think  it 
safe  to  say,  will  never  sing  in  opera.  She 
bawls  gay  tunes  in  a  raucous  voice,  but  her 
personality  is  so  humourously  engaging 
that  people  laugh  the  moment  she  stands 
up. 

I  have  no  idea  of  spoiling  Fysher's  by 
telling  you  exactly  where  it  is.  If  you  find 
it,  you  must  find  it  for  yourself  or  get  some- 
one else  to  show  you.  The  only  clue  that 
I  shall  give  is  this:  that  from  the  step  of 


SHE  IS  STARRING  IN  OPERA  IN  AMERICA  THIS  YEAR. 


Paris  a  la  Carte  67 

the  Cafe  de  Paris,  you  can  very  nearly 
throw  a  gold  piece  (or  a  handful  of  them) 
to  Fysher's  darkened  doorway. 

Two  classes  of  night  restaurants  are  left 
to  us  when  Fysher's  closes.  There  is  Max- 
im's and  the  similar,  if  less  objectionable, 
places  of  Montmartre  on  the  one  hand,  and, 
on  the  other,  the  little-known  dives  of  the 
"Apaches'1  both  in  Montmartre  and  near 
Les  Halles,  the  great  markets  of  the  city. 
If  the  former  are  dissolute  and  foolish,  the 
latter  are  really  dangerous,  for  they  are  in- 
fested by  the  lowest  characters. 

Only  those  who  know  Paris  well  should 
venture  into  night  resorts  in  doubtful  neigh- 
bourhoods. All  the  so-called  "gaiety" 
that  any  normal  person  wishes  may  be 
found  in  well-known  places  like  the  Rat 
Mort  and  1'Abbaye.  The  stray  sociologist 
alone  should  think  of  penetrating  to  the 
lower  depths,  and  him  I  advise  to  stay 
away. 


68  Paris  a  la  Carte 

Le  Pere  de  Famille,  Le  Grand  Comptoir, 
Le  Chien  qui  Fume,  Le  Lapin  Sautant,  Le 
Caveau  des  Innocents,  etc.,  clustering  about 

Les  Halles,  are,  for  the 

most  part,  shabby  like- 
nesses   of    the    Mont- 


THE  CAFES  OF 
THE  "APACHES' 


martre  restaurants. 
With  the  exception  of  the  last-named,  they 
have  cafes  and  bars  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  restaurants  above ;  and  usually  there  is  a 
red-coated  orchestra,  composed  of  hunch- 
backs or  otherwise  grotesque  musicians. 
To  these  places  come  the  ''Apaches"  (a  word 
which  the  French  have  borrowed  from 
among  our  Indian  names,  to  designate 
a  bloodthirsty  villain),  the  "voyous,"  or 
toughs,  who  hang  about  the  markets,  and 
the  "maqueraux,"  with  their  women.  To 
some  of  them,  especially  the  Grand  Comp- 
toir, which  is  the  largest  and  perhaps  the 
most  orderly  of  them  all,  occasionally  come 
slumming  parties  from  the  fashionable 


Paris  a  la  Carte  69 

world  of  Paris;  but  foreigners  are  never 
seen. 

The  crowds  arrive  between  midnight  and 
two  o'clock,  and  stay  through  until  morn- 
ing, dancing,  singing  the  latest  ribald  songs, 
breaking  chairs  and  bottles,  and  occasion- 
ally shedding  blood.  Just  as  the  purest 
French  is  said  to  be  spoken  in  the  city  of 
Tours,  the  impurest  is  spoken  in  these  res- 
taurants. It  is  the  argot  of  the  underworld, 
and  is  called  the  "langue  verte."  The  most 
poisonous-looking  place  of  all  is  the  Caveau 
des  Innocents,  a  low,  vaulted  cellar,  with  a 
doorway  so  small  that  one  must  stoop  to 
enter,  and  a  series  of  narrow  little  rooms, 
in  which  desperate  characters  congregate 
about  tables  covered  with  the  names  of 
"Apaches,"  which  they  have  carved  with 
their  murderous  knives:  "Casque  d'Or," 
"Coup-couteau  de  la  Bastille,"  etc. 

Outside  the  great  Halles  roar  with  work 
as  the  creaking  two-wheeled  carts,  which 


7°  Paris  a  la  Carte 

have  come  in  from  the  country,  are  emptied 
of  their  produce.  And  when,  at  five  or  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  fetid  cafes  close 
at  last,  they  are  hemmed  in  by  barricades 
and  breastworks  of  fresh  vegetables. 

This  brief  descent  into  the  underworld 
has  been  a  slight  digression  from  the  line  of 
march.  The  logical  ending  of  a  night  of 
prowling  in  the  Paris  cafes  is,  as  everybody 
understands,  in  Montmartre.  To  speak  of 
Montmartre  anywhere  but  at  the  very  end 
of  this  article  would  be  to  "put  the  carte 
(du  jour)  before  the  hors  (d'ceuvre)." 

Very  well.     You  and  I  have  come  from 
the  boulevards  below.    Our  taxi  has  panted 
up     the     "mountain," 
between  rows  and  rows 


MONTMARTRE 


of  darkened  houses, 
steering  a  straight  course  for  the  beacon 
lights  of  the  Place  Pigalle.  Nearing  the  top, 
we  have  reached  the  realm  of  illumination, 
the  big  electric  sign  of  the  Bal  Tabarin,  of 


Paris  a  la  Carte  71 

the  Restaurant  Lajeunie,  the  Royal, 
Monico's,  Pigalle's,  and  at  last,  upon  the 
plateau  of  the  Place  Pigalle,  1'Abbaye  and 
the  Rat  Mort. 

One  can  never  tell  just  what  is  going  to 
happen  in  'Montmartre.  The  evening  may 
be  dull  or  may  be  gay.  Banalities,  absurd- 
ities, comicalities,  or  odd  adventures  may 
be  there  awaiting  us.  We  shall  see  Spaniards, 
Italians,  Russians,  Arabs,  Scandinavians, 
Germans,  Englishmen,  Turks,  and  our  own 
fellow-countrymen  in  search  of  amusement, 
mischief,  vice.  We  shall  see  a  sprinkling 
of  respectable  American  women,  with  their 
escorts,  clean-looking  women,  wide-eyed  and 
curious,  who  decorate  these  bawdy  supper 
rooms  like  lilies  growing  in  a  heap  of  refuse ; 
we  shall  see  other  American  women,  shrewd 
sagacious  buyers,  who  have  come  to  Paris 
for  the  purchase  of  model  hats  and  gowns 
for  the  coming  season  in  New  York, 
Chicago,  San  Francisco;  and  we  shall  see 


72  Paris  a  la  Carte 

still  others:  adventuresses,  women  who 
have  drifted  here  on  the  crest  of  one  ad- 
venture, and  are  floating  idly  in  the  eddies, 
waiting  for  another  one  to  roll  along. 
The  easy,  indolent,  elegant,  and  relatively 
inexpensive  life  of  Paris  appeals  to  American 
women  of  all  classes.  Just  as  quantities  of 
well-to-do  and  rich  ones  have  their  apart- 
ments on  or  near  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
quantities  of  others,  who  have  tiny  in- 
comes, live  comfortably  in  cosey  little  flats 
about  the  Latin  Quarter,  so  also  do  in- 
numerable women  of  our  demi-monde  float 
over  and  stay,  held  by  the  charm  of  Paris, 
by  the  modest  cost  of  living,  by  the  horse- 
racing,  the  gambling,  the  revelries  of  hectic 
nights. 

New  York's  Lobster  Palace  Society  has 
always  its  ambassadors  in  Paris,  and  anyone 
unfortunate  enough  to  know  by  sight  the 
more  conspicuous  figures  of  the  Manhattan 


AN 
IMPORTATION 

FROM 
NEW  YORK 


Paris  a  la  Carte  73 

Tenderloin  is  sure  to  find  familiar  faces  in 
the  Paris  restaurants. 

"Mr.  Feldman,"  a  figure  well  known  to 
the  head  waiters  of  Long  Acre  Square,  will 
surely  be  in  Paris.  You  will  see  him  enter 
the  Cafe  de  Paris, 
Maxim's,  or  1'Abbaye 
with  the  same  air  of 
being  "someone  in  par- 
ticular" that  you  have 
seen  him  wear  when  entering  the  Knicker- 
bocker grill-room,  Martin's,  the  "other" 
Martin's,  or  Churchill's  in  New  York.  And 
trailing  on  behind  him  you  will  see  the  same 
large  lady  in  staccato  scents  and  a  dimin- 
uendo dress. 

To  anyone  who  sees  our  "Mr.  Feldman" 
walk  into  a  restaurant  it  is  instantly  ap- 
parent that  he  is  not  made  of  common  clay, 
but  rather  of  truffles  and  pate  de  foies  gras. 
Neither  in  New  York  nor  Paris  is  it  neces- 
sary for  him  to  reserve  tables  in  advance. 


74  Paris  a  la  Carte 

No  matter  what  a  crush  there  is  he  always 
sails  majestically  in  and  finds  a  place.  If 
the  regular  tables  are  occupied  a  special 
one  is  carried  in  and  laid  for  him. 

The  "Mr.  Feldman"  kind  of  man  distrib- 
utes largesse  with  a  plump  and  lavish  hand. 
He  has  cocktails  named  for  him,  drinks 
vintage  champagnes,  sends  for  the  head 
waiter,  calls  him  "Louis,"  dresses  him  down, 
and  gives  him  a  twenty-dollar  bill. 

"Mr.  Feldman"  is  sometimes  young,  but 
usually  he  is  middle-aged  and  just  a  little 
bald.  His  complexion  is  of  either  a  pasty 
cream  colour,  or  an  apoplectic  purple, 
shading  off  to  a  lighter  tone  about  the 
prominently  upholstered  neck.  There  are 
deep  wrinkles  beside  the  nose,  fleshy  pouches 
beneath  the  eyes,  diamonds  on  the  fingers, 
and  very  fancy  buttons  on  the  waistcoat. 
The  whole  is  mounted  upon  creaky  legs. 

While  "Mr.  Feldman"  lives,  he  lives  very 
high,  and  when  he  comes  to  die,  he  does  it 


Paris  a  la  Carte  75 

so  quickly  that  he  actually  interrupts  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  ordering  another  bottle. 
His  colour  changes.  If  he  was  purple,  he 
turns  mauve;  if  cream-coloured,  a  lovely 
shade  of  pale  green.  An  attentive  waiter 
catches  him  as  he  starts  to  flop  over  on  the 
wine  coolers.  He  has  stopped  ordering,  so 
his  friends  know  he  must  be  dead. 

But  we  were  in  Montmartre.  Mont- 
martre  is  dissipated,  but  not  in  the 
oppressive,  ugly  manner  of  the  New  York 
Tenderloin.  Many  of  the  women  who  go 
regularly  to  the  Abbaye,  the  Rat  Mort,  and 
Rabelais',  are  startling  in  appearance,  and 
though  there  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  business 
they  are  bent  on,  they  have  a  superficial 
gaiety,  a  native  wit,  which  the  Anglo-Saxon 
sometimes  finds  alluring. 

"No  wonder,"  I  heard  an  American 
woman  say  to  her  husband,  as  she  watched 
a  youthful  Briton  gaily  buying  bottle  after 


76  Paris  a  la  Carte 

bottle  of  champagne  for  a  group  of  bizarre 
young  women  in  the  Abbaye,  "no  wonder 
that  young  Englishmen  have  such  a  jolly 
time  in  Paris.  Think  of  the  dulness  of  the 
women  that  they  see  at  home!" 

We  have  come  to  Montmartre  "for  fun," 
and  perhaps  we  can  have  fun,  if  we   keep 
our  minds  trained  up- 

on  th 


"THE  MOUNTAIN" 


of  things.  We  must 
persuade  ourselves 
that  the  dancing-girls  are  there  from  terp- 
sichorean  passion;  not  for  the  paltry  francs 
they  gain.  We  must  regard  the  extrava- 
gantly costumed  cocottes  as  happy  nymphs, 
and  must  believe  that,  between  hectic  nights 
in  cafes  and  slumbrous  days  in  stuffy  rooms, 
the  "filles  dejoie"  lead  joyful,  soul-satisfying 
lives.  In  short,  we  must  accept  the  point  of 
view  of  other  casual  visitors,  and  think  that 
happiness  is  manufactured  by  the  topsy- 
turvy formulas  of  Montmartre. 


Paris  a  la  Carte  77 

Failing  to  accomplish  this  inversion,  we 
shall  see  in  the  region  of  the  Place  Pigalle 
only  a  sample  of  that  sad,  artificial  gaiety 
which  exists  in  any  city  where  the  "lid  is 
off." 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  French  and  of 
Montmartre  that  one  sees  but  little  drunk- 
enness up  there.  And  it  is  to  the  discredit 
of  Americans  that  they  supply  such  as  there 
is.  No  more  excuse  for  inebriety  exists  in 
Montmartre  than  in  an  insane  asylum. 
The  place  is  crazy  enough  without  the  aid 
of  an  excess  of  alcohol.  It  is  a  distorted, 
iridescent  world,  seen  through  the  bottom 
of  a  goblet;  a  dusty,  dirty  dream,  full  of 
colour,  noise,  and  confusion,  peopled  with 
caricatures,  and  smelling  stale  as  a  plush 
dress  on  which  a  goblet  of  champagne  has 
been  upset.  And  there  you  sit  and  sit  until 
the  blue  dawn  begins  to  percolate  through 
roofs  of  glass,  and  things  and  people  fade 
and  melt  in  the  mixed  lights. 


A 

MONTMARTRE 
DAWN 


78  Paris  a  la  Carte 

You  grow  depressed.  It  is  another  morn- 
ing— another  day  to  be  met  and  coped  with. 
You  shut  one  eye,  relight  your  cigar,  call 
for  checks  and  coats,  and  leave. 

As  you  go  into  the  street,  a  tall,  hand- 
some girl  from  one  of  the  other  restaurants 
is  passing  toward  her 
home.  Over  her  lovely 
evening  dress  is  thrown 
a  wrap  of  costly  lace. 
Her  ebony-black  hair  is 
piled  up  wonderfully,  and  in  place  of  a  hat 
she  wears  two  large  rosettes  of  lace  and 
ribbon,  fastened  to  the  ends  of  hatpins. 
She  turns  her  slanting,  inscrutable  black  eyes 
to  you,  notes  that  you  are  an  "Anglais," 
and  says,  in  staccato  accents,  as  she  goes 
upon  her  way: 

"  'Allo,  my  dear.    Sink  of  me." 
A  little  morning  pleasantry,   in  passing 
— that  is  all. 

The  Paris  dawn  is  very  beautiful.     It  is 


Paris  a  la  Carte  79 

blue  and  cold  and  pure,  and  as  you  clatter 
home  through  narrow,  sleeping  streets,  the 
mad  scenes  of  the  night,  which  have  been 
swinging  in  your  brain  like  windmills,  are 
as  the  horrors  of  a  past  delirium.  Paris  has 
been  born  again,  beautiful  and  virginal,  as 
only  you,  who  see  her  by  the  light  of  dawn, 
may  ever  see  her. 

Yet,  even  then,  she  is  unreal.  The  trees 
are  unreal,  the  long  line  of  two-wheeled 
carts  and  the  piles  of  fresh  vegetables — 
green,  yellow,  white — arrayed  within  them, 
are  unreal;  the  man  who  is  washing  down 
the  streets  with  an  absurd  hose,  on  rollers, 
is  unreal ;  the  house  before  which  your  cab- 
man stops  is  unreal;  and  when,  later  on, 
you  offer  it  to  some  one,  you  will  find  that 
the  change  the  cabman  gave  you  was  unreal, 
as  well. 

END 


BOOKS  BY  JULIAN   STREET 


The  Need  of  Change.     Illustrations   by  Horace 
Taylor.    12mo.     Cloth.     50  cents  net.    Postage 

5  cents. 

"A  sketch  too  good  to  miss.  Delightfully  hu- 
morous."— Baltimore  Sun. 

"Many  laughs  between  the  covers.  The  story  is 
told  with  spirit  and  a  constant  sense  of  humor." 

— New  York  Saturday  Review  of  Books. 

Paris   a   la    Carte.     Illustrations  by  May   Wilson 
Preston.    12mo.    Cloth.    60  cents  net.     Postage 

6  cents. 

A  charming  account  of  certain  of  the  author's 
"gastronomic  promenades"  of  Paris,  as  he  expresses  it, 
"principally  in  taxis.  "  The  volume  is  not  a  guide  book 
to  the  restaurants  of  Paris,  but  is  made  up  of  entertaining 
and  amusing  sketches  that  will  make  enjoyable  reading 
for  those  who  have  never  been  abroad,  and  helpful  to 
those  who  intend  going. 

Ship  Bored.  Illustrations  by  May  Wilson  Preston. 
12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents  net.  Postage  5  cents. 
This  is  an  original,  most  amusing  and  highly  realistic 
account  of  the  longing  for  firm  earth  experienced  by 
all  those  who  are  ship  bored,  or  seasick.  A  trip  across 
the  ocean,  as  described  in  this  little  book,  will  certainly 
appeal  to  everyone's  sense  of  humor. 

My  Enemy— The  Motor.  Illustrations  by  Horace 
Taylor.  12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents  net.  Postage 
5  cents. 

"Will  supply  all  normal  readers,  motor  enthusiasts 
or  otherwise,  with  cause  for  chuckling  during  a  good 
half  hour. " — Chicago  Record-Herald. 


John   Lane   Co.        New  York 


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